Colonial Madness (2 page)

She'd been raising me alone ever since my dad had died when I was a toddler. He'd been a navy pilot, and they'd met at the local base where Mom had worked altering uniforms.

Did I miss him? I think more than anything I missed the
idea
of him, of being a complete family. The reunions Mom spoke of only involved Dad's relatives. Mom had been on her own since she hit eighteen.

I stopped in front of a brownstone to wait for a girl with freckles across her nose and wavy brown hair like mine.

“You look troubled,” she said by way of greeting. My cousin, Angel, flicked a braided strand of hair behind her shoulder.
The feathers tied to the end twisted on the breeze, and I was tempted to ask if she'd plucked them from a bird herself. Angel and her parents were survivalist hippie types.

“Did a package come to your house this morning?” I asked.

“With a message from beyond the grave?” she replied with a mystical waggling of fingers.

I smiled. “Yeah, Great-Aunt Muriel's video will. Are you and your parents competing for the estate?”

She nodded. “Living the way nature intended is what we're all about. If man and beast—”

I cleared my throat. “We're a block from your house now. You can drop the act.”

“Thank God.” Angel tugged the feathers out of her hair and crammed them in her pocket. When she pulled her hand back out, she was clutching a lipstick and dangly earrings.

“I don't know where my mom got those feathers, but there was bird poop on my windowsill this morning.” She slid on the earrings. “My guess? The former owner was expressing some rage.”

We paused for a moment so she could apply lipstick in the reflection of a car window.

“You know you don't have to go along with everything they want,” I told her, pulling a stray feather from her hair. I tried
to flick it away, but it stuck to my fingers no matter how hard I shook them.

“Honey hair spray,” said Angel, blushing. “Dad thinks it's better for the environment.”

Angel's dad, my uncle Deke, was a chemist. Her mom, my aunt Zoe, was an accountant. It's anyone's guess how they turned out to be ultrahippies.

“I know I don't have to humor them,” said Angel, “but I'd rather hide the lipstick than get a lecture on chemicals. The last thing I need is another one of my dad's homemade butter-and-berry lip glosses.”

“That actually sounds delicious,” I said.

Angel curled her lip. “When it gets hot out it smells like my face is cooking. People call me Angel Food Face.”

I fought back a smile. “Do you want some perfume?”

“Yes, please,” she said, putting the lipstick back in her pocket.

I spritzed the air and she sashayed through it. I followed her, and we switched to a normal stride as we continued toward the museum.

“You're lucky we wear the same scent,” I said. “And that your folks are clueless enough to believe you smell like that from walking beside me.”

“Hey!” She punched my shoulder. “My parents aren't clueless. We're going to win the contest, you know.”

“So, you really
are
going to compete?” I asked. “What would your parents do with a place like that if they won? Turn it into a butter-and-berry-lip-gloss factory?”

“Sell it,” said Angel. “And use the money for a backpacking adventure across the U.S.” She forced a smile. “We're all very excited to sleep in the dirt. Wheee.”

I snorted. “If you're lucky, it'll rain and you can get a free mud bath. Most spas charge a ton for that!”

Angel wrinkled her nose. “What are you guys going to do if
you
win?” she asked. “Not that you stand a chance against us,” she added with a wink.

“You don't have to worry about that. We're not competing.”

“What?!” Angel stopped and turned to face me. “You have to. I can't rough it alone!”

“You don't need to convince
me
,” I said. “My mom's the one saying no. She doesn't think we need the money.”

Suddenly, Angel made a weird sound in her throat and stepped back.

“What?” I asked as she started walking again. I hurried to keep pace with her.

“Nothing,” she said, coughing. “I just . . . ate a bee. It must have smelled my honey hair spray.” She laughed nervously and swatted the air around her.

I gave her a look. “Angel.”

She sighed. “Look, my mom is your mom's accountant, right? Well, according to her, Aunt Jill is in the red. Deeper red than this lipstick.” She pointed at her mouth.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

Angel leaned closer. “Red is the bad—”

“I know it's the bad color!” I snapped. Mom had just finished telling me we were fine—
twice
. “Does my mom know?”

Angel gave me an exasperated look. “No, we're waiting to announce it at Christmas. Yes she knows!”

I shook my head. “How can we be losing money? I know she gets paid well. I've personally filed her invoices in the fork holder.”

Angel gave me a weird look.

“I mean, yeah, she buys too much fabric in hopes that Funk will propose when he delivers it,” I continued, “but—”

“It's not fabric expenses,” Angel interrupted. “If I was eavesdropping correctly, Aunt Jill is paying a ton to have her shop where it is.”

I glanced at the busy street around us and the people driving past in professional business attire. My mom sold couture dresses for special events. These weren't the people she catered to. But they
were
what made the shop's neighborhood so expensive.

“Then I'll have to talk to her tonight,” I said, “and convince her to compete.”

Angel raised an eyebrow and made another sound in her throat.

“If you don't stop that,” I said, “I will find a bee and force-feed it to you. What now?”

“How much of the video did you watch?” she asked. “You only have until noon to confirm your entry.”

I suddenly felt light-headed. “What?” I stopped and took a step toward home. But it wouldn't do any good to go back. Mom would still say no.

Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes.

“Not sure if you're meditating,” said Angel, “but at least move your arms so the pigeons don't come to roost.”

“I'm not meditating. I'm remembering.”

I reached into my purse and pulled out my cell phone.

“You're not calling your mom, are you?” Angel shifted from foot to foot. “Because she's going to find out I told, and—”

“No, I'm not calling my mom,” I said, dialing. “I'm calling Great-Aunt Muriel's lawyer.”

If Mom wasn't going to look out for our little family, it was up to me.

H
udson and Associates,” a woman's bored voice drawled into the phone.

Since this was a serious, adult manner, I decided to handle it in a serious, adult voice. Which, for some reason, also happened to be British.

“ 'Ello, love, might I chat up Mister 'udson?” I heard myself say. “It's quite urgent.”

Angel turned to me, wide-eyed, and opened her mouth. Scared of what she might say, I pushed her into a pile of garbage bags.

“Ow!” she shouted. “I think I fell on a pineapple!”

“You're calling for Mr. Hudson?” asked the receptionist. “May I ask who this is?”

“Victoria Grace Porter,” I said in my most regal voice. “The . . . uh . . . First.”

I could've sworn the woman snorted. “Thank you. Please hold.”

Classical music assaulted my ear and Angel's fist assaulted my arm.

“Hey!” I dropped my phone and twisted away from her to retrieve it.

“Victoria the
First
?” she asked. “Planning more
heirs to the throne are we?”

The classical music cut out, and the woman's voice returned.

“He's tied up at the moment. Can I ask what this is regarding . . . your Highness?”

I dropped the accent. “It's about Muriel Archibald's video will,” I said. “I'm calling to tell him that we want to enter the contest. My mom and I.”

There was a clacking of fingernails on a keyboard, and then the receptionist said, “You said your name was Victoria Porter? According to the late Mrs. Archibald's notes, you're the overly responsible child prodigy?”

I frowned. “How did you . . . how did
she
know?”

“Mrs. Archibald was in the business of knowing other people's business.”
I could hear the smile in the receptionist's voice.

“Meaning . . . ?”

“And so your parents are Hank and Jill,” she said, evading my question. “The deceased hero and overly
ir
responsible seamstress. Correct?”

I bristled. “My parents are named Hank and Jill, yes. But that part about—”

“It appears your mother has already entered the contest.”

I forgot to be offended. “She has? When did she enter us?”

“Herself, actually,” said the receptionist. “She only entered herself.”

I almost dropped the phone a second time. “
What
?”

Mom was competing without me? But we did
everything
together! We grocery shopped together. We took painting classes together. We went to the gym planning to work out but ended up reading magazines together.

“Why wouldn't she want me to come?” I asked in a small voice.

Angel gasped. “What?”

I shushed her with a wave of my hand.

“Doesn't say,” said the receptionist. “Sorry, hon,” she added with genuine sympathy. “My guess would be it has to do with your age.”

“My
age
?” I repeated in a high, squeaky voice that didn't help. “That's the reason she needs me! She's old and falling apart.”

“Your mother's thirty-four. I'm
forty
-four,” said the receptionist flatly. “If
she
's old, then I'm about to crumble to dust. We should probably wrap this up.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, heat surging to my cheeks. “Listen, my mom can't win on her own.”

“Not if she's an irresponsible seamstress, no,” said the receptionist.

I bit back a nasty comment. “Can you please ask Mr. Hudson to extend the entry deadline just until this afternoon when I can talk to my mom? We really need the money.”

I crossed my fingers until the receptionist said, “Don't worry about it. I'll make sure you get a fair shot.”

I hung up and clutched my phone to my chest. Angel squeezed my shoulder.

“You okay?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I don't get why my mom wouldn't want me there. Do you think it's because of school?”

“No,” said Angel. “The contest is in a few weeks. That's what the lawyer said, anyway.”

We both grew quiet until Angel snapped her fingers.

“She probably thinks you'll want to enjoy your summer and it'll feel too much
like
school,” she said with a triumphant smile.

“You think?” My spirits lifted a little. “That's an easy enough fix. I mean, I'm
going to the museum right now for fun, and that's as educational a place as it gets!”

“I'm positive that's it,” said Angel. She tugged my arm. “Now come on. I want to go to the mall later.”

We sped up our pace.

“Do you think I'm overly responsible?” I asked.

Angel laughed until it echoed off the buildings. “Not at
all
. Lots of girls carry a first-aid kit in their purse.”

“Hey, accidents can happen anywhere,” I said. “Although most usually happen within a two-foot radius of my mother.”

“Well, I don't think there's anything wrong with being overly responsible . . .
if
you are,” she added with a grin. “It's the perfect contrast to your mom.”

I frowned, thinking of Great-Aunt Muriel's description of Mom: overly irresponsible. Part of the reason it bothered me so much was that it was right.

That afternoon, I sprinted home . . . or did my best attempt at it. After the museum, I'd convinced Angel to go to the library with me instead of the mall. My arms were weighed down with books on the colonial period so I could prove to Mom just what an asset it would be to have me along.

“Good luck!” Angel called when we parted ways at her place. “Text me later!”

When I burst through the shop door, gasping for air, Mom glanced up in alarm from a mannequin she was dressing.

“Tori!” She rushed over. “Is everything okay?”

I shook my head. “I . . . need . . .”

“What, darling?” Mom clasped my face between her hands. “Air? Water? For us to really exercise at the gym?”

I held up a hand to silence her. “I'm fine. I just need to talk to you.”

Mom breathed a sigh of relief. “Give me a minute to finish what I'm doing. And let me take that.” She reached for my stack of books, staggering under the weight. “Geez, are you an amateur bodybuilder?”